My Dad

I received a really nice email from my Cousin Colette yesterday in which she likened my interest in writing poetry to my Granddad Joe's. We never met Granddad Joe because he was killed in WWII and is now laid to rest with so many others from the King's Liverpool Regiment where he fell in Casino near Rome. Granddad Joe had 2 sons with our dear Nanna Kitty: Colette's Dad (also named Joe) and my Dad (Bob (above)).

Earlier this year my Dad went into hospital for what he told everyone was a routine operation. "I'll be out after the weekend", he told us. It was far from a routine operation and it turned out to be very serious. Months later he is almost back to his normal self. Unfortunately, his appetite for a pint or two with his sons has now diminished but we're just grateful that he's still around.

My Dad is a fiercely loyal Scouser with a typical (probably mutual), unhealthy streak of Xenophobia directed solely towards a certain city not 30 miles from his home in Liverpool.

This is a poem I wrote while visiting my Dad in hospital shortly after his operation.

I'll be out after the Weekend

We breached the smoking towelling tier,
transcended to the sky.
We found you weak and exhausted,
amid yards of hi-tech sci-fi.

You lay there prone before us,
all twisted pipes and tubes.
The Nurses worked like troopers
and one of them had nice eyes (lovely they were).

The op had been a marathon.
Your blood was not your own.
We feared a Manchester accent.
They assured us it was home-grown.

Through tears we laughed and teased you,
knowing full well no reply.
We hoped you wouldn't remember,
or we'd be the ones waving bye bye.

You dreamed of far off voices.
We uttered our words right there.
You struck for the top like a diver,
craving the surface for air.

You were promised an Echo mountain,
and places away from the rain,
in Stoke-on-Trent or Bristol,
or maybe sunny Spain.

I waited around regardless,
for words without your tube in.
In the faintest belief,
due to medical mischief,
they'd transfused you a dose of Mancunian.